


South of Hell

by nonbinaryspock



Series: Will You Go to Hell With Me [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Antisemitism, Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Scriddler, Southern Gothic AU, Teen AU, brief antisemitism but i'm gonna tag it anyway, child abuse tw, death tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-05 10:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 14,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11576442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinaryspock/pseuds/nonbinaryspock
Summary: A Southern Gothic AU focusing on Jonathan Crane and Edward Nygma.Few people visit Arlen, Georgia and even fewer stay. Arlen doesn’t lend itself to tourists and most people decide to settle in Atlanta instead. New people rarely come to town.A boy comes to town.





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> This may end up being half a series of oneshots and half a story with actual plot, I'm not sure what direction I want to go with it yet. I just know there's not enough Southern Gothic Jonathan AU's and that's a crime.  
> The chapters will probably be short, I'm not really one of those 1000 word chapter people.

“What are you digging?”

Jonathan looks up through his eyelashes at the stranger. He straightens up, pushes the sweat soaked hair away from his forehead. Clears his throat. “Grave,” he says. He eyes the other boy. He seems to be around Jonathan’s age, sixteen or seventeen. He's a short, scrawny thing with a shock of red hair and a crooked nose. He's not dressed appropriately for the weather but his clothes are nice, if ill fitting. A city boy, most likely.

“Whose grave?” he asks, peering at the hole Jonathan has been working on.

“Dunno."

"You didn't ask?"

"My job ain’t to ask questions. I just dig.”

“Aren’t you curious though?" he presses. "I’d want to know whose grave I was digging, if you ask me.”

“Well it’s a good thing nobody asked you, innit?”

The redhead huffs. “Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?” he mutters, a pout crossing his freckled face.

“Look,” Jonathan says, growing annoyed with the boy. “I can tell you’re not from around here--”

“Gee, what gave it away? My accent?” He rolls his eyes.

“Your big mouth is what gave it away,” he snaps. “Keep askin’ all those questions and I reckon you’ll have the whole town fixin’ to kick your ass by the end of the week. So why don’t you mind your own business and keep on movin’.” He drives the shovel into the dirt, pushing it in further with his foot.

“Who’s died recently?”

“Are you _still_ here?”

“It’s a small town,” the stranger continues, ignoring Jonathan’s obvious irritation. “You must hear about it when someone dies.”

“Sure.”

“So?”

“So _what_?”

“So, who’s died recently?”

Jonathan stops digging. “Some old lady I think. Reckon she was someone’s grandmother.” He doesn't look up from the hole. “Bless her heart,” he adds.

“Well then that’s whose grave it is,” he replies smugly, as if he solved some puzzle that Jonathan's tiny little brain couldn't _possibly_ comprehend.

“Suppose you’re right.”

But he’s not right. The truth is Jonathan really doesn’t know whose grave it is. Not for lack of caring, or lack of intelligence. The truth is, Jonathan hasn’t heard about anyone dying. Not this week, not this month, not for a good while. Hasn’t even heard of anyone especially sick or old in the past few months. Aside from his grandmother of course, but he’d be the first to know if she’d died. The truth is he doesn’t have the faintest idea whose grave it is. But he doesn’t ask questions. He just digs.

And all the graves he digs get filled.


	2. The High Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw for some child abuse (Idk how serious people will think it is but it doesn't hurt to put a warning)

When Jonathan gets home his grandmother is already upstairs in her room. He tries to keep quiet on the off chance that she’s gone to bed already. He doesn’t want to provoke her quick temper by waking her. Not after last time.

He sneaks down into the pantry, grabs an apple, turns to go back upstairs.

“Stealing, are we?”

His heart sinks to his stomach and he looks down at his feet. “No Ma’am.”

His grandmother’s silhouette darkens the door frame, an almost statuesque figure of stern authority. “Where have you been?”

“Working, Ma’am.”

She narrows her eyes. "Working where?"

"Graveyard Ma'am. Been digging." His stomach growls and he tightens his grip on the apple, wanting nothing more than to go up to his room and eat in peace.

She notices. “Give that to me,” she orders.

He looks down at the apple in his hand. He’s hardly eaten all day. “But--”

“ _Thieves_ get nothing,” she hisses. 

"I wasn't gonna steal it, Ma'am."

She scoffs. "As if I believe that. Your mother was a liar and a thief, it's no surprise you turned out the same." She holds out a bony hand, long fingers stretched menacingly toward him. “Give it to me. _Now_.”

He’s not going to argue with her. Reluctantly he hands her the apple. “I’m sorry Granny.”

She glares down her long nose at him for a few moments before moving out of the doorway. “Go to bed Jonathan.”

“Yes’m.” He scrambles out of the pantry and hurries up the stairs and into his room, closing the door quickly, but quietly, behind him.

He does not sleep that night.


	3. Ace of Cups

Jonathan looks at his reflection in the grimy mirror of the school bathroom, staring blankly into his own pale blue eyes. He turns the faucet on. Runs his fingers under the water until it warms. He shoves a fistful of paper towels under the water, pressing them to his face once damp. He winces. Wipes away the blood caked in the crevices of his skin. Looks at himself again. Blood still drips from a cut in his lip, crimson drops spattering the ceramic sink. He sighs, holding the towels against his mouth. Tries to stop the bleeding. Can’t. He debates whether he’d rather be late for class or show up to class looking like this. The bell rings, making the decision for him. He might as well take his sweet time now. 

The bathroom door opens. Jonathan glances at it in the mirror. Groans. “Ah shit, not you again.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?” the red haired boy grumbles, positioning himself at the sink next to Jonathan. He glances over at him. Frowns. “What happened to you?”

“Could ask you the same.”

The boy raises his hand to touch his face gingerly, fingertips resting on the purple bruises growing on his pale skin. Doesn’t answer. He reaches into his backpack, taking out a small plastic bag full of what looks like makeup. He takes out a tube of concealer, squeezes some onto his fingers, dabs it onto his skin. Sets it with powder. He offers the tube to Jonathan, not looking at him. “Want some?”

“I’m alright.”

“Suit yourself.” He puts the bag back into his backpack. “What class do you have this period?” he asks tentatively. 

“English.”

“What teacher?”

“Only one English teacher.”

“Jesus.” He hoists his bag onto his shoulder. “Well. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

_ Christ, I hope not.  _ “Maybe.”

The boy starts to leave. Stops. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Jonathan.”

“Jonathan,” he repeats. “I’m Edward.”

He slips out the door and disappears into the hall, leaving Jonathan alone with a bloody lip and a sinking feeling in his stomach.


	4. Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw for brief use of an antisemitic slur (I only use slurs that I can reclaim pls don't come for me)

Small town gossip is infamous. You can’t so much as spit without the whole town finding out. It’s impossible to escape a small town scandal. Even when the gossip stops, people remember. They always remember.

The streets buzz with murmurs as Jonathan walks through town to the store. For once, they don’t seem to be talking about him. He keeps his head down and his mouth shut nonetheless.

He vaguely overhears whispers carried on the warm breeze, catching snippets of chatter about the preacher’s son, about a barn. Something about a troublemaking newcomer.

He walks faster. Passes the church. The neon sign outside reads “Jesus Saves”. It flickers as he goes by.

He passes two girls walking in the other direction. They whisper and giggle to each other. “The kike and the preacher’s boy,” one of them snickers. “Imagine that.”

He walks faster. Passes the church. The sign is turned off. He sees the preacher outside. He lowers his eyes. He doesn’t know why but he can’t bring himself to look at him. He keeps going.

The wind stops. The birds and insects grow silent. The whole town grows silent. He passes the church. It looks like it’s been shut down for years. Paint peels off the walls. The J in “Jesus” has fallen off the sign and into the dirt. The windows are boarded up.

He reaches the store. He feels like he’s been walking for hours. The town is not that big. It has never been that big.

The bell dings as he pushes open the door. He grabs a bag of chips, a coke, asks for a pack of cigarettes. Pays cash.

“Have you heard?” the cashier whispers eagerly.

“Heard what?” he asks. 

The cashier doesn’t answer. Hands Jonathan his purchases and his change. “Have a nice day,” she says coldly.

He leaves. Goes back through town. His stomach lurches. He ignores it. There is no reason for him to be upset. For once, people don't seem to be talking about him, but he still has the nagging feeling that everyone's eyes are on him. Like they know. They must know something. His fingers tremble. He ignores it. Tightens his grip on the plastic bag in his hand. 

He keeps going. Passes the church. It looks brand new. He sees an unfamiliar man standing outside. The man smiles and waves at Jonathan. He does not wave back. The neon sign outside reads “Hell is Real”. It flickers as he goes by.


	5. The Wheel of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of drug use and slavery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is way shorter than I meant it to be whoopsie but that's just how the cookie crumbles

Jonathan comes from a long line of Southern gentry. The Keeny manor is built on the backs and bones of slaves and the earth beneath it reeks of blood and decay. The only thing strong enough to mask it is the stench of old money emanating from the property. As far as anyone in Arlen is concerned, old money outweighs any past offenses. 

Marion Keeny is the last reigning matriarch of the family, in addition to being Jonathan’s grandmother. She has a sister in the town over, but aside from that the Keeny line has all but died out. Jonathan’s mother is the youngest and, presumably, last person who still carries the family name, but she’s decidedly out of the picture. No one knows exactly what happened to her, but judging by her history it’s likely that she’s dead or, at best, strung out on meth in some backwoods town. 

Everyone knows Jonathan is a bastard, in the classic sense of the word. Anyone old enough to have known his mother can figure out who his father is. Anyone old enough to have known his mother has heard the stories. They know where Jonathan comes from, and take every opportunity to remind him. His grandmother is no different. 

But for the first time in years someone new has arrived in town. Someone who doesn’t know the first thing about Jonathan’s family. And although Edward is obnoxious as all hell, Jonathan can’t help but appreciate the feeling, however brief, of anonymity. 

The problem is, if he’s so much as seen near Edward, rumors will start. Despite his short time in Arlen, Edward has already attracted a fair amount of scrutiny and scandal. And Jonathan can’t afford to be dragged into Edward’s mess. No matter what he thinks of him. 


	6. The Hermit

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Do you work out here every day?”

“Not every day.” Jonathan stops digging, leaning on the top of his shovel. “You followin’ me or somethin’?”

Edward scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have to walk this way to get home.”

“Where could you possibly live that you have to walk all the way out here?” he asks skeptically. 

“Oh, you know, down that way.” He gestures vaguely in the direction he’d been walking. 

It’s Jonathan’s turn to scoff. “Ain’t nothin’ down there but fields and forest.”

“Sure there is. It’s an old house near a big tree? We got it cheap because someone died in it or something so everyone thinks it’s haunted.”

He pauses. Thinks for a moment. “Yeah, I know the one,” he says slowly. “You don’t have to come this way to get there, though. It’s faster to just go through town.”

“I like the exercise.”

“Really?”

“No, but that’s what I tell myself to make the long walk less excruciating.” He grins, flashing a set of slightly crooked but very white teeth at Jonathan. 

“So why do you actually come this way?”

Edward chews his lower lip, shuffling his feet in the dirt. “You’ve probably heard the things they’re saying about me,” he mumbles.

“I’ve heard some of them.”

“I can’t go through town,” he says. “The way they treat me… it’s bad enough at school, but having to walk through town with people whispering about you and staring at you… you don’t know what that’s like.”

Jonathan doesn’t say anything. 

Edward clears his throat, keeps talking. “But it’s fine, I mean, I don’t mind going the long way around, if it’s not too hot, and it’s nice to have some time alone with my thoughts, so really the whole thing isn’t so bad, and I really shouldn’t be complaining, I mean, I can tell you’re annoyed with me when I’m  _ not  _ bitching and moaning nonstop, and you’re trying to work so I should probably head home, besides if I’m  _ too  _ late my dad’ll kill me, I mean I have to make dinner and stuff so I should probably get going.” He speaks at lightning speed, somehow maintaining perfect diction. It’s almost impressive. 

“Sorry,” Jonathan offers, once he’s sure Edward is done talking. “'Bout the people in town. And at school.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got to go.” 

“Um. Can I ask you somethin’ real quick?”

“I guess, but I really should--”

“Is the stuff they say about you true?” he interrupts. His throat feels tight and his mouth is dry, but he tells himself it’s just dehydration. 

Edward stares blankly at him. “Some of it,” he says finally. “But not everything.”

And then he’s off, walking quickly down the dirt path towards the woods. 

Jonathan watches him go for a moment before pushing the shovel into the dirt and getting back to work.


	7. Eight of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw child abuse/violence

Jonathan tugs his shirt over his head, discarding it on the bathroom floor and inspecting the mess of bruises, welts, and scrapes covering his skin. He turns to try and get a better look at his back, realizing that it’s even worse than his front. He winces. Blood and dirt is ground into his skin, smeared across his back, his neck. Granny had been particularly upset with him-- he can barely even remember what he’d done to upset her in the first place.

She’d sent him out into the yard to pick his own switch-- he couldn’t pick one too small because she’d only beat him harder for that, but he tried to find one that wasn’t terrifyingly large. She’d beaten him black and blue, covering his skin with bruises and angry red welts. She sent him out to the barn to “pray God forgives you for what you’ve done”, padlocking the door behind her. Once in the barn, it was only a matter of time before the crows got to him.

He shivers. He doesn't want to think about that. 

He turns on the shower and gets in, biting back a yelp as the water pours over his wounds. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to block out the searing pain on his back and shoulders. He can’t stay in the shower much longer. 

He gets out, gingerly patting a towel over his skin. He doesn’t get completely dry, but he’s exhausted and it hurts to apply the necessary pressure to actually dry off. 

He doesn’t bother changing for bed. Just throws on a pair of underwear and collapses onto the mattress. The impact hurts the bruises on his stomach and chest, even though most of them are old. He realizes he didn’t even turn the light off but he can’t will himself to get up and go all the way across the room, so he just closes his eyes and tries to sleep. The pain of his injuries and his inability to find even a halfway comfortable sleeping position keep him awake for hours, and pain grows behind his eyes with each passing minute. 

After what seems like eons, he finally reaches peak exhaustion, tired to the point that he physically can't stay awake.  He feels like he’s only just drifted off when his grandmother’s voice pierces his eardrum. He starts, hissing in pain as the sudden movement disturbs his wounds. 

When Jonathan doesn't respond to his Grandmother's calls, she marches up the stairs, opening his door with a slam, and telling him to get ready for church. 


	8. Four of Swords

“You have a different bag today.”

Jonathan looks up at Edward. Says nothing. Looks back down at the peach he bought on the way to school. 

“You usually have a backpack,” Edward continues. “A blue one. Three compartments. Very practical.” He pauses, as if expecting praise for remembering what Jonathan’s bag looks like. 

He was right, Jonathan had brought a different bag that day. His backpack hurt too much to carry so he’d opted for a shoulder bag instead. Still, he says nothing. 

Edward clears his throat impatiently. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Sorry, yes. It’s a different bag.”

Edward looks at him curiously. “Are you alright? You look awful.”

“Not feeling very well.”

“You look pale. Paler than usual, I mean.” He laughs nervously, a poor attempt to cut through the tension. “Is that all you’re eating?” he asks, pointing to the peach.

Jonathan nods. 

“Do you want some of my food?”

“I’m okay.”

“You really should eat something, especially if you’re sick, it’s important to get the proper amount of nutrients. How much sleep do you typically get?”

“I’m not sick.” This is strange. He's not used to people taking an interest in his general health or wellbeing. It makes him uncomfortable.

“Well then what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’. I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Edward drops his bag down near Jonathan, sitting down in front of him. He digs around inside, pulling out a  paper bag. “I have a sandwich, if you want it.”

“I’m okay.”

“I also have these,” he continues, taking out a small bag of pretzels. “I don’t really like them, they taste like sawdust to me, but we don’t have a lot of money and these are cheap and filling, so they’re good to have around in a pinch. Let’s see.” He looks into his backpack again. “I might have something saved from the other day, if--”

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

Edward stops. “Jonathan, what happened?” he asks quietly. 

He doesn't look at Edward. Tears some grass out of the ground at his feet. Shreds it into little pieces. “You shouldn't ask so many questions,” he murmurs. “Might find out somethin’ you don't want to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: I edited this a bit so it's shorter and less bad lol I think it's okay now? idk maybe tomorrow i'll decide i don't like this either who knows i'm fickle like that. I also changed the title because the old one doesn't really work with this edit.


	9. Two of Cups

“What are we doing in the middle of a field?”

“You didn’t have to come,” Jonathan mutters. He drops his bag in the tall grass, sitting down beside it.

“I don’t really have anything better to do,” Edward says, sitting down with him. “Is this what Southerners do for fun? Sit in fields?”

“Of course not, don’t be stupid.”

“Well what  _ do  _ people do for fun around here?”

He shrugs. “Talk shit and shoot things I reckon. Sometimes there’s, like, church events.”

“Wow. Sounds really entertaining.” Edward is silent for a few moments. He taps his fingers on his knee. Looks around. Swallows. “Do you really think I talk too much?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

He feels vaguely guilty for saying that. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t say anything. 

They sit silently for a few minutes. Jonathan becomes painfully aware of how quiet it is. There’s no breeze, no animals. Not even an insect chirping in the grass. Everything is still. Silent.

It’s unsettling. 

“Are you okay?” Edward asks, breaking his focus.

“Thinking.”

“Oh. Should I be quiet?”

“I don’t care.” He sighs. “I don’t actually mind how much you talk,” he grumbles. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re annoying as all hell, but it’s not a big deal or nothin’.”

“Gee, thanks.” He lays back in the grass, resting his head on his hands. 

They talk for a bit. Edward does most of the talking, which is to be expected. Jonathan listens. Listens to him talk about how he misses New York, his old house, his mother. Listens to him complain about how there’s no Synagogue in town but, then again, he never really liked going so perhaps it’s not that bad. Every few sentences he pauses, as if waiting for permission to keep talking. Jonathan offers encouragement of some sort, and he continues.

He talks about school, classes and teachers he dislikes, kids that hate him. He mentions a boy. His voice softens. He looks down at his hands, murmurs something about blonde hair, blue eyes. A crooked smile. 

He trails off. “You don’t want to hear about this,” he mumbles. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s fine.” He clears his throat. “I think I should probably get goin’ though, Granny’ll be madder than a wet hen if I’m late for supper.”

Edward sits up. “Oh. Okay.”

“It’s not because of you,” he says quickly. “Really, I don’t care what you talk about, but it’s gettin’ late, so I should probably go.”

“Yeah, I understand.” He smiles. It’s supposed to be reassuring, but for some reason Jonathan still feels guilty. “I’ll see you at school?”

“Yeah. See you.” He gets up, slowly and painfully. Reaches for his bag. Tries not to wince.

“Is everything--”

“I’m okay,” he says. “Just hurt my back is all.” 

“Oh. I hope you feel better.”

“Yeah, me too.” He offers a half smile, which probably looks more like a grimace than anything else. “See you,” he says again, before turning and heading off in the direction of the manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen i REALLY wanted to use the phrase "madder than a wet hen" alright sue me


	10. Eight of Cups

Jonathan dips his feet into the cool water of the creek, sitting down at the edge of the water. It’s nice to have some time alone. Granny always told him to stay away from the creek. He’s not sure why, and she won’t tell him. 

He lights a cigarette. Inhales. Exhales smoke. Coughs. Continues. He’ll have to remember to air out a bit before going home. Last time his grandmother caught him smoking she made him eat the rest of the cigarettes. How cliche. 

He splashes the water with his feet. Mosquitos buzz nearby. He doesn’t really see any, but he can hear them. At least, he hopes they’re mosquitoes.

He hums something to himself, trying to block out the buzzing. He doesn’t know what song it is, can’t remember where he’s heard it, if he’s ever heard it. Something from church? He stops humming. 

The long grass waves in the wind, rustling and whispering. He doesn’t listen. Focuses instead on the buzzing of the mosquitos. He does not want to hear the secrets carried by the breeze. He does not want to think about what lies waiting in the grass. He kicks his feet again, water splashing against his calves. 

He has the nagging feeling that he’s avoiding something. Something important. A thought crosses his mind. He ignores it. He shouldn’t think that. He knows better. 

His chest feels tight. He finishes his cigarette. Flicks the end of it into the creek. Watches it float away, and debates whether to light another. He decides not to. Wouldn’t want to push his luck. 

He checks his watch. He should get going in a few minutes. He shuts his eyes, trying to savor the last few moments of relative peace before returning to the waking nightmare that is life with his Grandmother. He sighs, eyes closed, face tilted up to the sun. Something in the water brushes against his ankle. He ignores it.


	11. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for violence/injuries

“Jonathan? Jonathan!”

What?

“Holy shit, are you okay?”

What’s happening?

“Jonathan?”

“Whass’appenin’?” His speech is garbled. He chokes. Coughs up a mouthful of liquid. Blood?

Edward comes into view, looking very blurry and upset. “Jonathan?” he says again.

His head is pounding. He squints, his head lolling to the side. He sees something. Tries to focus on it. Fuck, his head hurts. The pale blob a few feet away comes into view. It’s a person. A boy. He knows him. He thinks he knows him. He lifts his head slightly. 

Oh God.

Blood flows from a gash in the side of the boy’s head. It pools underneath him, matting his hair and soaking into the dirt. He sees more blood dripping from his nose, the corner of his mouth. He looks pale, God, he looks so pale. Is he breathing?

Jonathan rolls over onto his stomach, pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, and vomits. What happened? What’s happening? 

Edward is saying something. He tries to listen. Tries to pay attention. “--out of here. Can you hear me? Shit, I think he’s-- a concussion.” 

He can only make out snippets of whatever Edward’s saying. “Slow down,” he rasps.

“I think you have a concussion,” he says slowly. “We have to go, okay?”

“What’s-- what’s happening? Edward?”

“--be okay. I don’t-- dead. But we gotta get out of here.”

He nods. They have to go. He can understand that much. He doesn’t have to be lucid to know that something has gone horribly wrong. And it’s his fault. 


	12. Nine of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for violence/injuries

Jonathan wakes up in a bed. Not his bed. Whose bed? 

He feels only marginally better than earlier. His head still hurts. His whole body hurts. What happened to him?

And then it starts to come back to him. 

He’s hit with the realization that he may have killed someone. He remembers the boy. Remembers him following them back from school. Him and two others. Three? He didn’t notice soon enough, he should’ve noticed. He has a blurry memory of his body hitting the ground. Edward next to him, crying. Screaming. Is Edward okay?

He reaches for something. A rock? Something big. Heavy. And then the boy is on the ground and Jonathan’s on top of him and the others are coming towards him and then--

He can’t remember. Was it just a concussion or did he black out? What happened? Christ, what did he do?

He feels like he’s going to throw up again.

“You’re awake,” Edward says quietly.

How long has he been there? Jonathan turns his head to look at him. His nose is bleeding. There’s a scrape on his cheek. He’s holding an ice pack against his side. Dirt and tears and blood are all ground into his face, caked in his hair. 

“You look like shit,” Jonathan says.

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.” 

“Is it that bad?”

Edward grimaces. “However bad you think you look, multiply it by ten.”

He wants to laugh at that, but he’s in too much pain. He looks up at the ceiling. Tears sting the backs of his eyes but he won’t cry. He can’t cry. “Edward?”

“What?”

“Did I… is he okay?”

Edward is quiet. Then, “He’s not dead. He’s pretty far from okay though.”

“Oh.”

“Why did you do that?” he says. His voice is unsteady.

“I don’t… I’m not sure. I don’t remember.” It hurts to talk. Hurts to breathe. He thinks one of his ribs might be cracked. Hopefully it hasn’t already punctured his lung. That would be a real pain in the ass. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Got my nose broken again, and I got the shit kicked out of me worse than ever, but I’ll live.” He eyes Jonathan nervously, chewing his lower lip. “You scared me,” he whispers. His voice breaks. “You really fucking scared me.”

Fuck.

“I’m sorry. I’m so-- I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I didn’t mean to…” He chokes on a sob, gasping for air. “I fucked up,” he mumbles.

Edward sniffles, wiping blood and mucus away from his nose. “Come on,” he says, standing up with a groan. “I’ll take you home, okay? I’ll take my dad’s truck, I’ll drive you.”

Home. His grandmother is going to kill him. 

They drive in silence. Jonathan leans his head against the window, but the movement of the truck vibrating against his skull feels awful. Instead, he gingerly rests his head on Edward’s shoulder. Edward doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t seem to mind.

He drops Jonathan off. Says he’ll see him later. Let him know if he hears anything about the boy. Jonathan nods. Stumbles out of the truck, and staggers up to the front door of the manor. Goes inside. 

He can hear Granny calling him. Notices her in his peripheral vision. She drops something. Starts shouting something at him. He doesn’t listen. “Got in a fight,” he mumbles. “Goin’ to bed.” He doesn’t care if she kills him. He doesn’t have the willpower to talk to her. He climbs the stairs, going up to his room and crawling into bed. His grandmother doesn’t follow him.


	13. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for a homophobic slur

Jonathan doesn't go back to school for a while. He’s surprised Granny let him stay home at all, but for whatever reason she took pity on him. Perhaps it’s her good Christian sensibilities, or some shriveled up maternal instinct being revived. Either way he’s grateful. 

Edward heals faster than Jonathan. Once he goes back to school, he starts stopping by to bring Jonathan classwork and homework that he missed. His grandmother is not happy about this. She knows who Edward is. She’s heard the stories. But she lets him in anyway. Lets him go up to Jonathan’s room for exactly fifteen minutes with the door open. He’s sure to be polite to her, says thank you every time, calls her Ma’am just like Jonathan told him to. He doesn’t want to give her any more reason to hate him. 

Edward tells Jonathan that the boy’s parents aren’t pressing charges. “I don’t think he told them who did it,” he says, unpacking a stack of papers and notebooks. “It’s kind of embarrassing to say you got beaten up by a scrawny nerd and his faggot friend. I guess he made something up.”

Typical. The only thing people in Arlen love more than gossip is keeping up appearances. 

“Here’s the stuff from class today,” he says, setting the schoolwork on Jonathan’s bedside table. “I know history isn’t your best subject, so I paid attention and took good notes just in case.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan says, trying to sit up a little. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He smiles. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit better. I’ll probably be back in class next week.”

“That’s good. It’s _so_ boring without you, I mean, everyone there hates me except you.” He shifts on the edge of Jonathan’s bed. “But those guys have been leaving me alone. I guess they think if they do anything to me you’ll attack them or something.”

“Good lord, I’ve got a reputation,” he groans. “What a pain.”

Edward snickers. “Jonathan Crane, certified bad boy.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

Granny clears her throat impatiently, standing with her arms crossed in the doorway. 

“I’d better be going,” Edward says, packing up his things. “It was nice to see you,” he murmurs. He offers Jonathan’s grandmother a small smile. “Thank you Mrs. Keeny, I hope you have a good evening.” He waves to Jonathan, following his grandmother into the hallway and down the stairs. 

Jonathan hears the door open and close. Hears footsteps on the stairs. Granny reappears in the doorway, looking no less stern than usual. “Once you’ve healed, that boy is not allowed to set foot on this property  _ ever  _ again,” she warns. Her voice is low and even. Her eyes are cold. “Do I make myself clear?”

He nods quickly. “Yes Ma’am.”

She nods back at him, turning and disappearing down the stairs. 

Jonathan leans back, his head sinking into his pillow. His grandmother’s generosity, as with all her positive qualities, has limits.


	14. The Empress

“So why do you live with your grandmother?” Edward asks. “Where are your parents?”

“Dunno.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Never met ‘em.”

“Never?”

“Not ever.” 

They turn a corner. Edward has started requesting that Jonathan walk home with him after school, unless he has to work. Edward claims he just wants to spend more time with him, but Jonathan knows he’s scared. Scared what’ll happen to him if someone catches him walking alone on the outskirts of town. And rightfully so. Wouldn’t be the first time someone disappeared on a dusty road in a small town. Certainly wouldn’t be the last either. 

He doesn’t mind the long walk. Anything that keeps him away from Granny for even a few minutes is fine with him. 

“Are they dead?”

“Maybe.” Jonathan shrugs. “All I know is what I’ve heard from people in town. They say my mother stole a bunch of shit from Granny so she could sell it and skip town with her boyfriend, but then she got pregnant and he left without her. So she waits nine months, has her bastard kid, and runs away like she planned.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I reckon she was ‘bout seventeen? Maybe eighteen, I forget.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Granny says she’s probably dead or high outta her mind somewhere and that’s her penance for bein’ a whore and a thief. But nobody really knows what happened to her.”

“I’m sorry,” Edward murmurs.

“It’s fine, can’t really miss people you never knew, so I’m not upset or nothin’.” He glances over at Edward. Clears his throat. “What about you, where’s your mother?” he asks. He doesn’t want to talk about his parents anymore. 

“Left. She hated my dad so she left to go live with her sister I think. We couldn’t afford our old house without the second income, so we moved. Slow down,” he adds. 

Jonathan slows down. He’s quite a bit taller than Edward and his legs are significantly longer. His natural stride is too long for Edward to match. “Why move all the way to Georgia?”

“I don’t know. It’s cheaper than New York I guess. And I think he grew up in Savannah or something.”

“Oh.”

They keep walking. Edward changes the subject. 

“Pesach is coming up.”

“Pesach?” Jonathan asks. 

“Passover. It’s a holiday.”

“I know what Passover is.” He only kind of does, but doesn’t want to seem stupid. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna do the Seder this year,” he continues. “I mean, my dad’s not Jewish, my mom is, and I don’t think my dad’ll want to do it. Which sort of sucks. I like Passover. And Purim, oh man, Purim is so fun. Especially in New York, I mean, Italian Jews go  _ wild  _ on Purim.” 

He continues, listing off his favorite Jewish holidays and customs. Jonathan has virtually no idea what he’s talking about but doesn’t want to interrupt him for clarification. Besides, Edward’s enjoying himself regardless of whether Jonathan understands or not. 

They approach Edward’s house. “The truck’s gone,” he remarks. “I guess Dad’s not home yet.” He turns to Jonathan. “Do you want to come in for a little bit?” he offers.

Jonathan checks his watch. “I can’t, Granny’s expectin’ me back by four. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Another time.” They say their goodbyes and Edward starts off toward his house. Jonathan turns around, puts his hands in his pockets, and starts walking home.


	15. The Hanged Man

Jonathan wakes up drenched in sweat and shivering. He rolls onto his side, curling into the fetal position, wrapping his arms around his torso. His breath is ragged and his hair is plastered to his forehead. 

Nightmares. Again. 

He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His hands are shaking. He picks up his watch. Two o’clock. Great. 

He opens his window. The breeze feels nice and he starts to relax a bit. He reaches underneath his mattress. Takes out a pack of cigarettes. Lights one. Blows a mouthful of smoke out the window. He convinces himself Granny won’t see or smell the smoke. He leans his head against the windowsill. 

A thought crosses his mind. He ignores it. He can’t ignore it. He shouldn’t think that. He can’t ignore it. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach. If his grandmother found out-- but that’s ridiculous. She’s she’s sadistic, not psychic. She can’t know what he’s thinking. 

But he still feels guilty. He always feels guilty. 

He wonders if Edward ever feels the same way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is like 2 sentences whoops


	16. The Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just dudes bein' bros

Edward kicks off his shoes and cuffs his jeans just below his knees. “Nice day.”

“Yeah.” Jonathan does the same, testing the water with his foot. It’s a little warm from the sun, but still cool enough to be refreshing on a hot day. He sits down at the edge of the creek.

“I didn’t even know there was a creek here,” Eddie says, sitting down beside him. 

“It’s easy to miss if y’ain’t lookin’ for it.” He kicks his feet back and forth in the water. 

“We should get food after this, if we have time.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “I’d kill for a good hashbrown right about now.”

Edward laughs. “You’re so Southern.”

“What’s so Southern ‘bout that? Fried potatoes are universal.” He tilts his head back. Looks up at the sky. No clouds. 

They’re quiet for a few moments. Jonathan drums his fingers on the ground beside him. He bites the inside of his cheek. Kicks his feet back and forth. Doesn’t look at Edward. He’s nervous. He shouldn’t be nervous, nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s going to go wrong. He shouldn’t--

His thoughts are interrupted when a decent amount of water splashes him in the face. “What the fuck?” he sputters, wiping his face with his hand.

“Oops.”

“ _ Edward! _ ”

“It was an accident!”

“How could you have  _ possibly  _ done that by accident?”

“You know, it’s funny that you ask, because--”

Edward doesn’t get to finish whatever lengthy explanation he was about to give, because Jonathan shoves him into the creek. It’s not deep, so he’ll be fine. Unless he somehow hits his head and dies, but that’s unlikely.   
“You dick!” Edward shouts. “You complete and utter asshole!”

“Oops,” he mocks. 

“I didn’t even splash you that much!” he snaps, water dripping off his hair and into his eyes. He splashes Jonathan again. 

“Knock it off! You’re gonna get me all wet.”

“You’re already wet!”

“Whose fault is that?”

Edward glares at him, climbing out of the water. He sits down next to Jonathan again, looking very much like a petulant child. “You suck. We’re  _ not  _ friends anymore.”

“Come on,” he says, nudging Edward’s shoulder. “You’re not really mad at me, right?”

“No. I’m not mad,” he grumbles. “Not  _ that  _ mad anyway.”

“Sorry I pushed you,” he offers. 

“It’s fine,” Edward says. He puts his arm around Jonathan. 

He tenses. What’s he doing? God, he’s nervous again. Why is he so nervous? “What are you--”

And then Jonathan finds himself face down in the creek. 

Great.

“Now we’re even,” Edward says smugly. 

Jonathan rolls over and sits up. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Edward says, moving closer to him from the shore. “Hold still for a minute?”

“What? Why?”

Edward leans forward. Places his hand gently on Jonathan’s shoulder. 

Kisses him. 

Fuck.


	17. Three of Cups

About ten minutes later Jonathan is lying down with his head propped up on Edward’s thigh. 

“Feeling a little better?” Edward murmurs, pushing Jonathan’s damp hair away from his face. 

He nods. 

“If I had known you were going to have an actual anxiety attack I wouldn’t have kissed you,” Edward says. He grins down at Jonathan.

His face warms. “I probably woulda had one anyway, even if you hadn’t.” He groans, covering his face with his hands. “That was so fuckin’ embarassing,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay, it happens to the best of us.” He can tell Edward is stifling laughter. “Has no one ever kissed you before?” 

He shakes his head.

“Really?”

“Don’t act like that’s surprising.”

“You never know. Everyone in this town hates me and I can still get boys to kiss me.”

“Everyone in town hates you  _ because  _ you got a boy to kiss you.”

He shrugs. “Irrelevant.” He trails his fingertip over the curve of Jonathan’s ear. It’s nice. He’s not used to people being gentle with him. Usually whenever someone touches him it’s violent. Painful. It’s never just… nice. 

“Granny’ll have my hide if she finds out,” he says quietly. “I think she’d kill me for sure if--”

“She won’t find out,” Edward reassures him.

“She might.”

“I don’t see how she could, no one even saw us.”

“If anyone’s gonna find out, it’ll be her,” he says. “She always knows when I’ve done somethin’ wrong.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Just ‘cause I’m paranoid doesn’t mean it ain’t true.” He sits up, bringing his knees to his chest. “I feel bad.”

“About what?”

“I dunno. I just feel guilty. All the time. Like everything I do is wrong and everything I think is wrong and…” he trails off. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

Edward runs his fingers up and down Jonathan’s forearm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He squeezes his arm lightly. “Can I kiss you or will you freak out again?” he teases, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m not gonna freak out, alright, jeez.” He rolls his eyes. “You ain’t never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“No, it’s way too funny.” He puts his hand on Jonathan’s cheek, kisses him. His nose bumps against Jonathan’s. “Oops,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

He kisses him again. Smiles. “Do you still want to go get food?”

“Yes. Not right now though.” He shivers. His clothes are still very damp. He wants Edward to kiss him again. His chest feels tight. He swallows. “Can we stay a few more minutes?”

“We can stay as long you want.”


	18. The Hierophant

The whole town shows up for church on Sunday. Sunday service is a requirement, unless you want to be a pariah for the rest of your life. The word of God is the highest priority in Arlen. Everyone shows up for church on Sunday.

Everyone but two people. 

“I reckon they’d burst into flames if they even came  _ near _ a church,” someone whispers behind Jonathan. 

“What they deserve, if you ask me,” someone else responds. “Filthy--”

Jonathan’s concentration is broken as Granny digs her nails into his back. Have they always been that sharp? He grits his teeth. Looks straight ahead. He hates church. 

His mind starts to wander. He wonders if God really does know what he’s thinking. Wonders if the Devil does too. He shivers.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe Granny’s right. Maybe he does have a bit of the Devil in him. Maybe it’s his curse for being born a bastard. He doesn’t think he deserves to be punished for that, but God works in mysterious ways so the Devil must as well. 

His stomach hurts. He hopes Granny hasn’t noticed that he’s not paying attention. He just wants this to be over so he can go home. Crawl into bed, maybe get some halfway decent sleep for once. And then on Monday he can see Edward.

Jonathan coughs. He shouldn’t think about that, especially if God really does know everything. He should listen to the sermon. He starts paying attention. 

“...behold, you have sinned against the Lord,” the preacher recites. “And be sure, your sin will find you out.”

“Amen” the crowd responds, perfectly in sync.

“Amen,” Jonathan murmurs. His mouth has gone dry. He wishes he hadn’t decided to listen. He looks down at his hands. Swallows.

Arlen is a Godless place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i've never been to church idk what happens in church so if this isn't how church works then oh well i tried to include very little actual church stuff anyway


	19. Ace of Swords

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit too,” Edward mumbles. He’s got a black eye and a swollen lip with five distinctly finger-shaped bruises darkening the skin on his arm. A sizeable cut is visible just below his hairline. He looks disdainfully at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Grips the edge of the sink. “What are you doing after school?”

“Workin’.”

“Digging?”

“Mhm.”

“Can I come?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Edward turns to face Jonathan, leaning his forehead against his shoulder. Closes his eyes.

“Tired?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah. Dad came home wasted at, like, one o’clock. Woke me up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He wraps his arms around Jonathan’s neck. “How’d you sleep?”

“Same as usual.” He awkwardly raises his hand to the small of Edward’s back. Is this what people do?

“How are you not tired?”

“I am. Exhausted, in fact. Coffee helps.”

“I don’t like coffee.”

“Coke has caffeine.”

“Bad for your teeth.”

“You’re so picky.”

“I’m not picky, I just have standards.” Edward lifts his head slightly, pressing his lips to the base of Jonathan’s neck. “You should go to class.” 

“So should you.”

“I’ll go in a minute.”

“If you want me to go to class, you have to let go of me,” he murmurs.

“In a minute.”

“Edward.”

“Okay,” he says. Drops his arms to his sides. “Go. I’ll see you later.”

“See you.” He squeezes Edward’s shoulder gently before heading off to class.


	20. Four of Wands

“I’m not gonna get any work done if you keep on like that,” Jonathan mumbles, running his fingers through Edward’s hair.

“Few more minutes,” he murmurs against Jonathan’s neck, nipping at his skin with the edges of his teeth. 

“Someone could see.”

“No one comes this way, you know that.”

“First time for everything.”

Edward pulls away from him. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

Edward smiles. Kisses him. Slides his hand up the back of Jonathan’s shirt. Presses his fingers against his skin.

“Ow.” He hit a bruise. Not quite new, but still tender. 

He moves his hand slightly. “Sorry.” His tongue snakes over Jonathan’s lower lip, followed by the soft scrape of teeth.

Jonathan breathes out a sigh, his hands finding Edward’s hips, grasping at the fabric of his shirt. Kisses him back. 

He’s going to Hell for sure. 

“Ed--”

“Shh.”

“I gotta at least get started.”

“Just a few more minutes.” He presses his lips against Jonathan’s jaw. 

“You said that a few minutes ago.”

His teeth graze Jonathan’s earlobe. “You’re no fun.” His breath is warm against his skin. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, I’m fun enough for the both of us.” He kisses Jonathan’s cheek before pulling away from him, sitting cross legged on the ground. 

Jonathan gets up. Grabs the shovel. “Move, I gotta dig there.”

Edward sighs dramatically, getting up and leaning against one of the headstones. “Who died?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” He pushes the shovel into the dirt. He hates when Edward asks that. He never knows how to answer.

“I’m curious.”

Jonathan glances up at him. “I wouldn’t sit there if I were you.”

“Why? Worried a zombie will get me?” he teases.

“It’s disrespectful. And you might get haunted.”

“I’m not going to get haunted. Ghosts aren’t real.”

“You never know.”

He rolls his eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re paranoid or just superstitious.”

“Is there a difference?”

“No. I guess not.”


	21. Ten of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for injuries and whatnot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these kids just can't catch a break

Jonathan doesn’t know what normal people do. He never could figure it out, never could pretend well enough for Granny’s liking. There was always something a little off about him, something he could never pinpoint.  He’d go as far as to say it’s probably his greatest downfall.

He doesn’t know what normal people do, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t it.

“Hold still,” he mumbles, kneeling over Edward. “I’m gonna try’n pull it out.”

Edward sobs, clutching at his side. Blood leaks out from between his fingers, coating his hands and clothes. It pools beside him on the linoleum floor of the school hallway, seeping into the cracks between the tiles.

“Edward? I’m gonna try to get it out, okay?”

Edward nods frantically. “It hurts,” he whimpers. “ _Fuck_ , Jonathan, it _hurts_.”

“I know, I know it hurts, it’ll be alright, I just need you to hold still.” He pries Edward’s hand away from the shard of glass lodged in his abdomen. He recognizes it as a fragment of a mirror. “Shit, it’s in deep,” he mutters. He wraps his hand firmly around it, slowly starting to pull it out.

Edward screams, still sobbing and gasping. “Fuck! That’s worse, oh _God_ , that’s _so_ much worse.”

“I know it hurts, Edward, but I’ve gotta get it out, so just suck it up and let me get it out.” A crowd has gathered around them in the hallway. A mix of students and teachers standing over them. Cold eyes fixed on the two of them. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. Just watching. 

He has the nagging sense that something like this has happened before. Has a vague memory of a black child crying for his mother, chest full of buckshot, as the whole town looks on in silence. 

This isn’t normal. He knows this isn’t normal. It _can’t_ be.  

“Please, Jonathan,” Edward begs, bringing Jonathan's focus back to the present situation. “Please, it f-fucking hurts.”

“It’ll hurt worse if I leave it in.” He grits his teeth. Pulls again. Tries to ignore Edward’s wails, tries to ignore the blank stares of the crowd as he yanks the shard out of his flesh, quickly covering the wound with his hands. “Gotta apply pressure,” he mutters to himself. “Hopefully it didn’t hit any organs. Edward? You okay?”

“I fucking _hate_ you,” he groans, his chest heaving. He doesn’t seem to notice the others. Perhaps he’s in too much pain to care.

“You’ll thank me later.” He keeps his hands firmly pressed against Edward’s side. “Who did this?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t s-see. _Fuck_.” Tears are still streaming down his face.

“You couldn’t see anything?” he presses. “Think, Edward, try and think.”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “A boy? Maybe? Fuck, I don’t know, Jonathan, I don’t _know_.” He shudders, his breath ragged.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay. I’m gonna get you home and get you all fixed up and everything’ll be okay. Edward?”

He nods, his head dropping to one side.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Edward? Can you sit up for me?”

He nods again, raising his torso enough for Jonathan to slip an arm around him, hoisting him up to his feet. Thank God he’s tiny, or else Jonathan might not have been able to support his weight.

He looks around. The hallway is completely empty. The crowd has dissipated. Were they even there to begin with? The whole building is dead silent.

Is he losing his mind?

It doesn't matter. At this point, none of it matters.

“I’m gonna take you home,” he murmurs. “It’ll be okay.”

He’s not sure if he says it more for Edward’s benefit or his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm super tired so this might not be the best thing in the world but maybe i'll go back and fix it tomorrow  
> update: edited a tiny bit not sure if it's any better but eh


	22. Nine of Wands

“Of course  _ you  _ of all people would get stabbed,” Jonathan mutters. 

“I take offense to that,” he rasps. He shifts slightly, wincing. “Fuck.”

“Stay still.”

“I’m uncomfortable.” He sniffles. Wipes his eyes. He’s been crying off and on for hours. “Worst part is, I can’t figure out if they stabbed me because I’m gay or because I’m Jewish.”

“How is  _ that  _ the worst part?”

“It’s not. I was kidding. Trying to lighten the mood.”

“It ain’t working.” Jonathan slumps in his chair, bouncing his leg restlessly.

“I know. Come here.”

“I’m sittin’ right here.”

“I just got  _ stabbed _ , Jonathan, the least you could do is come over here and kiss me.” 

Jonathan rolls his eyes, motioning for Edward to move over. He does, and Jonathan sits down on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss him quickly. “Happy?” 

Edward puts his hand behind Jonathan’s neck, pulling his head down to kiss him again. “I think I deserve at  _ least  _ three kisses.”

“Oh you do, do you?” He presses his lips against the curve of Edward’s neck. “What time is your dad comin’ back?”

“Who knows? Could be around five, could be two AM.” He runs his fingertips over the nape of Jonathan’s neck. “When do you have to be home?”

“Probably ‘round four thirty. Might be able to push it until five, though, if you want me to stay longer.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” he mumbles.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me. I can handle myself.” 

Edward sighs. Rolls over onto his uninjured side, facing away from Jonathan. “I feel like shit,” he says quietly. 

“I know.” He runs his hand through Edward’s hair. Twists the strands around his fingers. “I’m sorry.”

Edward shudders, his shoulders shaking. He’s crying again. 

“Edward?” he murmurs.

“I can handle getting beaten up,” he says, his voice low. “I got beat up in New York too. All the time. I mean, I’m used to people not liking me. It’s just--” His voice falters. “This is so much worse,” he whispers. Brings his knees up to his chest.

Jonathan bends to kiss the back of his neck, still running his fingers through his hair. He runs his free hand up and down Edward’s arm, attempting a soothing gesture. “You should get some rest,” he says finally. 

“Are you going to leave?”

“I’ll leave ‘round five.”

“Wake me before you go.”

“I will.” 

Edward presses his back against Jonathan’s hip. Closes his eyes. Jonathan can feel his uneven breathing begin to slow as he traces small swirls and patterns over his skin. Draws invisible lines between his freckles.

He leans his head against the bed frame. Looks down at Edward’s sleeping form. 

Breathes a small sigh of relief. 


	23. Two of Swords

“You’re sure you don’t know who did it?”

“I told you, I couldn’t see them.” Edward frowns, lifting his hand to Jonathan’s face. Brushes his thumb over a large, red mark on his cheek. “What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter. You really didn’t see  _ anything _ ?”

“Is it because you were late yesterday?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, it doesn’t matter. Was there anyone else around who could’ve seen something?” 

“Jonathan, please,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“But--”

“Please,” he says again. His voice is unsteady. 

Jonathan pauses. Sighs. “Okay.” He kisses his forehead. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Did you get any sleep?” he asks, leaning back against the bedframe. 

“Few hours.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No. Hurts to get up.”

“I can make you something,” he offers. 

Edward shakes his head, curling up against Jonathan’s leg. “I want you to stay here.”

“You need to eat somethin’.”

“I’ll eat later. Don’t go.”

“It’ll just take a few minutes. I’m only goin’ a few rooms away.”

“Jonathan,” he mumbles. “Stay.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a dog, Edward.”

“Please stay?”

He sighs. “Okay, here, how ‘bout I make you somethin’ before I go?” he suggests. “Is that a good enough compromise?”

Edward nods after a moment, propping his head up on Jonathan’s thigh. “Okay.”

Jonathan ruffles his hair a little. “You can be so fuckin’ stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m not stubborn, I’m just strong willed.”

He scoffs. “Right, and y’ain’t picky, you just have standards.”

Edward smiles softly, closing his eyes. “Now you’re getting it.”


	24. Four of Cups

Granny is entertaining company today. She hates playing hostess, but she would never stoop so far as to turn away guests. Southern hospitality is infamous, and Granny knows as well as anyone that appearances are key. Declining company is simply a not-so-subtle way of admitting you have something to hide. Something to be ashamed of.  

Jonathan stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom, sighing heavily. He’s practically dying of boredom after an hour of being locked in his room. Granny always does this when people come over which, thankfully, is not often. Once or twice he’s considered sneaking out of his bedroom window, but he ultimately decided that he’d probably break his leg on the way down and it isn’t really worth the risk. 

Every once in awhile he gets off his bed, pressing his ear to the floorboards in an attempt to hear what’s going on downstairs. At one point he hears the pastor’s wife ask about him. Granny tells her that he’s visiting with a friend and won’t be joining them. Typical.

He pries up the loose floorboard beneath his bed, checking to see if he has anything stashed away to entertain himself with. He removes the contents of his hiding spot. Inspects them. He’s got a pack of cigarettes with only two left,  an empty matchbook, a dog-eared copy of Philip K. Dick’s  _ The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch _ , and a small wad of bills held together with a rubber band. 

He sighs again, replacing all of the items except the book. He’s read it so many times he could probably recite it at this point, but he doesn’t exactly have any better options. He sets it on his bed, putting the board back in its place. Presses his ear against the floor again. 

He hears the pastor and his wife laughing. It’s a mechanical sort of sound, too perfectly constructed to be genuine. He shakes his head. He’s had a bad feeling about this preacher since he arrived in town the day after Edward’s transgression, so to speak, with the former preacher’s beloved son. This new preacher smiles too much, exposing altogether too many teeth. His tone is too practiced, his sermons too uniform. There’s just something  _ off  _ about him.

Jonathan shivers. He shouldn’t poke his nose in matters that don’t concern him. 

He gets up from the floor. He flops back onto the mattress again, picking up the book. He opens it to the first page as he attempts to get comfortable, settling in for a long and uneventful night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's like a ~thing~ that jon really likes ulysses or whatever but i think some of philip k dick's books might rlly appeal to him (even tho sci-fi seems more like edward's ballpark than his) especially the three stigmata of palmer eldritch bc it looks at religion and consumerism and drug use and it's very good it's one of my favorite books so if ur into sorta old sci-fi i highly recommend it ok that's my little rant


	25. Three of Wands

“It’s a beautiful day,” Edward remarks, leaning against Jonathan’s shoulder. “It’s nice to finally get some fresh air.”

Edward had declared earlier that day that he was feeling significantly better and had insisted on a date, or as close to a date as they could get without anyone seeing them together. They eventually ended up back at the creek. It’s a nice, quiet spot and, most importantly, it’s secluded.

Edward continues. “I’ve been cooped up in my room for _days_. And it’s nice to see you,” he murmurs, casting a glance towards Jonathan. “I mean, I know I saw you a couple days ago,” he adds quickly, “but it’s hard to really appreciate your presence when I feel so awful, I mean, all I’ve been able to do the past few days is sleep and feel sorry for myself.” He pauses. Takes a breath. “I know I haven’t been much fun to be around lately,” he says softly. “I was starting to worry that you’d get sick of my moping and stop coming over.”

“I don’t mind. I mean, you got stabbed for Chrissakes, I think you’ve earned a bit of moping.” He slips an arm around Edward’s waist. “Did you really think I’d stop comin’ by?”

Edward nods, nestling against Jonathan’s torso. “I don’t know, maybe it’s an irrational fear, but I can’t help but worry sometimes.”

“Hm.”

He clears his throat, changing the subject. “My dad’s been out of town, though, so that’s sort of nice. I don’t know, sometimes it gets kind of creepy being in the house alone, but at least I don’t have to put up with him coming home drunk and angry, or sober and angry for that matter.”

“Christ, I wish Granny’d leave town. She barely even leaves the fuckin’ house, much less town.”

“Mm, how is the old crone these days?”

“Still in perfect health unfortunately.” He sighs. “I mean she’s _ancient_ , but she’s never even had a _cold_ as far as I know.”

“Jesus, I wish I knew her secret.” He grins, sitting up and turning to face Jonathan. “My top three guesses are vampire, demon, or some kind of evil robot.”

“My money’s on demon.”

Edward laughs. “Maybe you should organize an exorcism, see what happens.”

“But if she’s not a demon then she’ll just be mad as Hell and I’d rather not risk it.”

“Coward,” he teases.

“I’m not a coward, I’ve just got common sense.”

“Just like I’m not stubborn, just strong willed?”

“Exactly.” He smiles. “I think you’re startin’ to rub off on me.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Edward says dramatically. “I was beginning to think it would never happen.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to Edward’s forehead.

Edward hums appreciatively, wrapping his arms around Jonathan’s neck. Kisses him once quickly and then again, softer this time. Closes his eyes.

Jonathan brings one hand to Edward’s waist, the other finding the back of his neck. Presses his lips below his jawline, slowly making his way down to his collarbone.

Edward twists his fingers into Jonathan’s hair, sighing quietly. “What time do you have to be back?” he mumbles.

“Five.” He nips gently at the skin of Edward’s neck. Suppresses a smile as he feels Edward shiver.

“Do you want to get out of here? Hang out at my place for a bit?”

“We can do whatever you want.”

He grins, eyes still closed. “Don’t say _that_ ,” he murmurs. “I don’t think I can be trusted not to abuse that power.”


	26. The Star

Jonathan swings his legs over the edge of Edward’s bed, still slightly out of breath. He grips the mattress, his knuckles whitening from the tension. He hears Edward sigh softly and roll over. Feels his fingers ghosting over his back. He rubs Jonathan’s shoulder where his fingernails had previously dug desperately into his skin, massaging away the small indentations.

Edward presses his lips to the nape of his neck, humming quietly against his skin.  “How are you feeling?” he murmurs.    


“Good.” The word ‘good’ doesn’t quite encapsulate how Jonathan feels. He does feel good, in a sense. But he also feels slightly confused and horribly guilty. He feels dizzy. Feels more than a little self conscious.    


More than anything, he feels ashamed.

His stomach churns. He can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop thinking about the feeling of Edward’s hips beneath his palms, the soft curve of his thigh, the way his face looked when he—   


He shouldn’t think about that.   


Edward’s touch settles on a thick scar running across Jonathan’s back. “What’s this from?” he asks.   


“I was late to church.”    


“What do you m—oh.” He moves his hand to another part of his back. A round, smooth scar. “This one?”   


“I don’t remember.” He desperately tries to ignore the pangs of insecurity that wash over him as Edward’s fingers roam over his scars. Pangs of insecurity and something else. Something not altogether unpleasant.   


“What about this one?”   


“I think I broke somethin’.” He shakes his head. “I dunno, I was little.”   


“God,” he murmurs. “That’s awful.” He leans his forehead against Jonathan’s shoulder.   


He changes the subject. “What time is it?”   


“Three fifty-seven.”   


From the corner of his eye he can see Edward get up from the bed. He crosses the room to his closet. Takes out a clean shirt. Jonathan lowers his eyes. Says nothing. His leg starts to bounce involuntarily.    


Edward notices. He always notices. “Everything okay?” he asks.   


“I’m fine.”   


Edward closes the closet. Places himself directly in Jonathan’s line of vision. “Jonathan.”   


“Yes?” He avoids looking at Edward’s face, instead fixing his gaze on his shirt. It’s an old, faded band tee-shirt. Jefferson Airplane.    


“What’s wrong?”   


“I don’t know.” He changes his answer. “Nothin’s wrong.”   


Edward crosses his arms, tilting his head slightly. “I’m not an idiot, Jonathan.”   


“I’m well aware.”   


“Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He lets his arms drop to his sides. Sits down beside him. “Is it… did I do something?” he asks quietly.   


“No, it’s not you, it’s—” His breath catches in his throat. “I shouldn’t feel this awful all the time,” he says finally, his voice low. “I mean, I should just be able to enjoy myself but...” He sighs. Leans his head against Edward’s shoulder. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”    


Edward runs his fingers through Jonathan’s hair, gently massaging his scalp. God, it feels nice. “I know what you mean,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”   


“It’s okay.”   


He kisses the top of Jonathan’s head. “Did you at least enjoy yourself a little?” There’s a touch of nervousness in his voice.    


He nods. “I had a really good time,” he admits. He lifts his head to look at Edward, realizing he hasn’t really looked at him since they’d finished. His gaze quickly shifts to his neck, where three very pronounced purple marks have formed on his skin. His face warms. He brushes his fingertips over them. “Sorry ‘bout these,” he mumbles. “Must’ve gotten a little carried away. I didn’t think they’d be so big.”   


Edward laughs. “You’re adorable,” he says, grinning. “Don’t worry about it.” He kisses Jonathan, his hand still tangled in his hair.    


Jonathan begins to relax a bit, moving one hand to Edward’s lower back. Kisses him back. As much as it pains him to admit it, he doesn’t ever want to stop kissing him.    


Edward pulls away slightly, much to Jonathan’s disappointment. “Are you sure you’re okay?”   


“I’m fine. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“ _ Someone _ has to worry about you.” He furrows his brow a little. “I just want to make sure you’re alright,” he murmurs.

“I’m alright. It’s just… some days are worse than others.” He lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He kisses his cheek quickly, getting up from the bed. “Come on, get dressed. I’ll take you home.”


	27. The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for child abuse and a homophobic slur

“Where have you been?”

Jonathan freezes on his way up the stairs. Turns to face his grandmother at the bottom. “Working, Ma’am.” He prays to God that she can’t somehow sense that he’s lying. 

She narrows her eyes. “Come here,” she orders. 

Fuck.

His stomach lurches. He walks slowly back down the stairs. He doesn’t want to look his grandmother in the eye, but fears that she’ll think he’s being disrespectful if he doesn’t. 

“Working where?” Her voice is deceptively even. 

“Diggin’, Ma’am. In the graveyard.”

Before he even knows what’s happening she reaches her hand back and smacks him across the face. “How  _ dare  _ you lie to me,” she hisses. 

“I didn’t l--”

She hits him again. Grabs his chin in an impossibly strong grip, her fingernails digging into his cheek. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out you’ve been hangin’ ‘round that boy again?”

His heart plummets. “Granny, I--”

“Do you know what people’ll say?” she snaps. “When they find out what you are on top of all your other various impurities? Do you know what they’ll think of  _ me _ for raising a  _ faggot _ ?”

He feels tears sting the backs of his eyes and his heart pounds in his ears. His mouth has gone dry. She might actually kill him this time. 

She releases his face. “What did you let him do to you?” she asks. Her voice is low, her eyes cold. 

“We didn’t do anythin’, Granny, I promise, nothin’ even happened.” He feels like he might throw up. His hands are quivering.

She shakes her head gravely. “You always were a terrible liar, Jonathan.” She grabs him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him out of the house. Through the yard. He pleads with her, clawing at her hand but she says nothing. Doesn’t even look at him. 

The reach the barn. She wrenches open the heavy doors and pushes him inside. He stumbles, falling onto his knees in the dirt. “Granny, please,” he begs. “Please, nothing happened, I swear.”

She looks at him for a moment, her pale eyes fixed on his. For a moment he thinks she might reconsider. Thinks she might take pity on him.

But she doesn’t.

She sighs deeply, shaking her head again. “May God forgive you,” she says finally. She crosses herself quickly before closing the doors. Jonathan hears the padlock click. Hears her footsteps recede. 

Alone in the dark, Jonathan allows himself to cry.


	28. Three of Swords

Jonathan pounds his fist against Edward’s front door.  _ Please be home please be home please please ple-- _

The door swings open. “Jonathan? What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

Edward frowns. “It’s a school day. Aren’t you going to--”

“I don’t care. Please.”

He doesn’t argue. Steps out of the doorway, letting Jonathan slip in past him. “What’s going on?” 

Jonathan tries to speak, but a sob wells in his throat. He thinks he’s going to cry again. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Edward. 

“Jonathan, what’s wrong?” 

“She knows,” he rasps finally. “Oh God, Edward, she--” He swallows, covering his mouth with his hand. His breathing is uneven.

“What are you talking about?” 

“Granny. She knows that I’m-- that we’ve been--” he can’t bring himself to say it. “Fuck, Edward, I don’t know what to do.” His voice breaks. 

He sees the realization cross Edward’s face. “Oh shit,” he whispers. “Shit, Jonathan, I’m so sorry.” He reaches for Jonathan, wrapping his arms around him. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. 

Jonathan bends down slightly, burying his face in Edward’s neck. Clutches the back of his shirt. He shudders as tears start to flow. “Edward,” he mumbles.

“Here, sit down,” he coaxes, trying unsuccessfully to hide the anxiety in his own voice. Leads Jonathan carefully to the old couch in the living room. It’s full of holes and rips but Jonathan barely notices. His legs feel weak.

Edward pulls him against his shoulder. Rubs his back slowly. Jonathan begins to shake, his uneven breathing quickly devolving into hyperventilating. Tears drip onto Edward’s shoulder, seeping into the fabric of his shirt. 

Edward presses a kiss against his forehead. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay,” he murmurs over and over again. Smoothes Jonathan’s hair back. Kisses him again. 

He wants to say something, but he can’t stop sobbing and his chest feels tight and oh God he’s so scared. He’s so fucking scared. 

“What can I do?” Edward whispers. 

Jonathan shakes his head. “I’m okay.” It’s unconvincing to say the least. 

“Jonathan, I want to help.”

“I’m fine, I’m okay.” He pulls away from Edward, wiping his face roughly. Takes in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve-- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you have nothing to apologize for.” He kisses him. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” He’s still shaking. 

“You’re obviously not, but that’s okay. It’s okay to not be fine.”

Jonathan wipes his eyes again. “What am I gonna do?” he mumbles.

Edward shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Jonathan leans against Edward’s shoulder again. He feels Edward’s hand twist into his hair. He closes his eyes. 

He can’t keep doing this much longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm considering expanding this universe into a second fic after i finish this one? like it'd take place after this (maybe like when they're college age) and be the same sort of style i think but it won't be in georgia so it won't be a true southern gothic. but idk would anyone be into that? lemme know if that sounds interesting at all.


	29. Five of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for blood n stuff

Jonathan washes his hands. Washes them again. The water turns red as it spirals down the drain.  He washes his hands a third time. His palms are still stained with blood. It won’t wash off. It dries in the cracks of his skin, dries beneath his nails. He fears it will never wash off. 

He dries his hands, leaving streaks of red on the towel. He leaves the bathroom. Goes down the hall. Goes into his room. Ignores the bloody corpse lying just a room away. Ignores the foul smell that has begun to permeate the house. 

He pulls up the loose floorboard beneath his bed. Takes out the pack of cigarettes. Takes out the book of matches. It’s empty. Damn. He puts the cigarettes in his pocket.

He thinks he should feel worse than he does. Remembers how awful he felt when he thought he’d killed that boy. Remembers how terrified he was. He doesn’t feel that way now.

He doesn’t know what he feels now. 

He hesitates outside his grandmother’s room. He’d never been inside before today. He wasn’t allowed. He turns the knob. Lets the door swing open. The metallic scent of blood hits him sooner than the sight of her does. He gags a little. Covers his nose and mouth with his arm. He needs to get her out of here. Christ, what a hassle. How is he supposed to get her down the stairs? He debates pushing her out the window, just to get her out of the house, but that’s probably not a good idea. Then again, it does seem like the most efficient way of handling things.

No, it’s definitely not a good idea. 

He grits his teeth, reaching for her arm. Drags her off her bed. She hits the floor with a dull thud, her long limbs flopping heavily on the wood floor. He shudders. Keeps pulling. He manages to get her into the hall, stopping as he reaches the top of the stairs. He’s beginning to feel vaguely nauseous, and it’s dawning on him how truly fucked up this is, but it’s too late to give up now. He has to keep going.

By some miracle he manages to get her down the stairs without too much trouble. After that, it’s easy enough to get her out of the house and into the yard. Easy enough to get her into the barn. 

There’s a shovel in the back. He picks it up. Feels the weight of it in his bloodstained hands. He should’ve known he’d have to dig her grave eventually, no matter how she died. He drives the shovel into the dirt. Gets to work.

He finishes as quickly as possible. The grave is shallow but it’ll do. It’ll have to do. He goes back inside. Rummages around in the kitchen drawers. Finally finds matches. Lights a cigarette. Sighs. 

He has to clean up. He knows he has to clean up. He knows he’s not going to. He’s exhausted, and he’s seen enough blood to last a lifetime. He inhales deeply. Exhales a mouthful of smoke. He’s not going to clean up tonight. 

But he can’t stay in the house if he doesn’t. 


	30. Six of Swords

Jonathan taps on Edward’s bedroom window. The curtains are closed, so he can’t tell if he’s awake or not. Can’t tell if he’s even in there. He should be, it’s the middle of the night. But he could be out of his room. Could be out of the house altogether. He taps the window again, louder this time. 

The curtains pull back suddenly and Edward lets out a yelp, obviously startled. He opens the window. “What are you doing here?” he hisses.

“Can I come in?”

“Jonathan, it’s one in the morning, what the hell--” Edward stops himself, gaze sweeping over Jonathan. “What happened?” he says quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re  _ covered  _ in  _ blood _ !”

He glances down at himself. Realizes his clothes are smeared with partially dried blood. He didn’t think to change before leaving the house. “It’s not mine,” he says, immediately aware of how bad it sounds. “I’m fine,” he says again.

Edward rubs his eyes. “Dare I ask whose blood it is?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Can I come in?”

He sighs. “Sure.” 

Jonathan climbs in through the window, his knees bumping awkwardly against the windowsill. “Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” He goes over to the closet, sliding the door open. “You can borrow some clean clothes. I do  _ not  _ want you anywhere near me or my things looking like that.”

“That’s fair.” 

Edward tosses him a tee shirt and a pair of pajama pants. “I’m not sure if either of those will fit you, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Thanks.” He can already tell that the pants are much too short. The shirt looks alright though. “Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay.” He watches as Jonathan pulls his own shirt over his head. “I just… you don’t have to tell me what happened but… I just want to know if you’re really okay.”

“I’m okay. I’m not hurt.” He kicks his dirty clothes into a pile in the corner. 

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.” Not yet at least. “I’ll tell you ‘bout it in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Edward nods slowly. “Okay. Fine.” He gets back into bed.

Jonathan hesitantly slips under the covers beside him, putting a few inches of space between them. Edward presses his back against his chest. He relaxes, draping one arm over his waist. 

“You scared me,” Edward mumbles.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss against his shoulder.

“It’s alright. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He yawns, curling up against Jonathan. “Try to get some sleep.”

“I will.”


	31. Seven of Swords

“Jesus Christ my boyfriend’s a murderer.”

Jonathan grimaces. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Which one, boyfriend or murderer?”

“That’s not funny.”

“ _ I _ thought it was.” Edward’s eyes follow the trail of dried blood up the stairs. “Jesus Christ,” he says again, quieter this time.

“I should’ve cleaned it while it was still wet,” he mumbles. 

“Yes, you should’ve.” Edward sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “I guess get a bucket and some rags? And a mop if you have one.”

Jonathan nods. Does as he says. When he comes back, Edward is gone. He sets the bucket down, going upstairs to look for him. Finds him in his grandmother’s room, stripping the bloodstained sheets off the bed.

“It’s on the mattress too,” he mutters to himself, glancing briefly at Jonathan.

Jonathan freezes. His eyes are glued to the large, dark stain saturating the mattress. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Just stares at it. Edward is saying something but he doesn’t hear him. His stomach lurches. He stares blankly at the stain and, for the first time since last night, thinks about what he’s done.

He killed his grandmother. 

Oh God.

“Jonathan?” Edward moves to stand in front of Jonathan, blocking the bed from view.

“There’s something wrong with me,” he rasps. “I’m not… I  _ killed  _ someone.”

“In your defense, the bitch had it coming,” Edward says. 

“Edward, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t’ve-- she didn’t deserve--  _ fuck _ .”

“Listen to me,” Edward says slowly. “This is an impossibly terrifying and fucked up situation, one I wish you hadn’t gotten yourself into. But your grandmother was fucking vile, and honestly I can’t blame you for… for doing what you did.” He reaches to cup Jonathan’s face in his hands. “If anyone deserved it, it was her.”

“Why are you helping me?” he mumbles. “You said it yourself, I’m a murderer.”

“Because I care about you, dummy. And I don’t want you to go to jail.” He pushes himself onto his toes. Kisses him softly. “Now calm down and help me clean.”


	32. Seven of Cups

“Have you ever thought of just… leaving?”

Jonathan looks up from the spot he’d been scrubbing. “Leavin’?”

“Yeah, like leaving town.”

“Where would I go?” he asks slowly.

Edward shrugs, sitting back on his heels. “Anywhere you want.”

“I’ve never been anywhere else,” he murmurs. Granny would have never let him leave. “Why?”

“I’ve been thinking about going back to New York.”

“Oh.” He tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. Tries to keep his expression even. “What about your dad?”

He scoffs. “I don’t give a shit about my dad and he doesn’t give a shit about me. He’d probably be glad if I left.”

“When’re you thinkin’ of going?”

“After graduation.” He bites his lower lip. Goes back to cleaning. He seems nervous. “Did you apply to any colleges in New York?”

“A couple. I mostly applied locally. Didn’t plan on leavin’ Georgia.”

“Well, if you get accepted to somewhere in New York, you could come with me,” he mumbles. “If you want, I mean. I don’t want you to go to a school you don’t like just because of me.”

“I don’t even know if I can afford to go anywhere.” 

“You don’t have anything saved up?” 

“It’s not like Granny cared about settin’ up a college fund for me.” He  shrugs. “I’ve got some money, but I’d have to get a huge scholarship or somethin’.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asks quietly. 

Edward lowers his eyes. Keeps cleaning. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“Would you mind if I didn’t?”

“I think you should do what’s best for you.” He’s avoiding the question.

“But I’m askin’ what  _ you _ want me to do,” he presses. 

He sighs. Doesn’t look at Jonathan. “I just want you to be happy,” he murmurs.


	33. Two of Pentacles

Jonathan digs through his grandmother’s closet, looking for anything of value or interest. He could sell her clothes, but he can’t think of anyone who would want them. He checks the pockets of her coats but doesn’t find anything. He keeps looking. Finds a shoebox. There’s some old letters and photos in it. Several of the photos appear to be of a young woman, but the face has either been scratched or cut out. His mother, most likely. He puts the box back. 

He turns his attention the the dresser, searching through the drawers. More clothes. His fingers brush against something wooden and he retrieves a small square box. Opens it. It’s a jewelry box. A few rings, a necklace, a couple pairs of earrings. He puts the box on the bed. Keeps looking, moving on to the second drawer. Nothing. Third drawer. He finds a wad of bills. Maybe two hundred dollars? He tosses it onto the bed. Fourth drawer. Nothing.

He looks around the room, wondering where he would hide his valuables if he was a greedy old woman. Under the mattress? He lifts it up. Nothing. Perhaps  _ in  _ the mattress? He could cut it open, but he doesn’t see any way she could’ve hidden something inside without cutting it open herself. He’ll come back to it. 

He checks for loose floorboards. Can’t find any. Maybe she has something stashed away downstairs. He takes the jewelry box and the money into his room. Sets them down on his bed. 

He thinks he should feel at least a little bad about stealing from his dead grandmother, but he just can’t bring himself to care. If anything, he deserves to take everything she’s ever owned. He deserves it for what she did to him. What she put him through. He deserves it. 

Or maybe that’s just what he tells himself. 


	34. The World

Edward burrows beneath the covers on Jonathan’s bed, leaving nothing but his hair and one foot exposed. “Graduation tomorrow,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the blankets. “Excited?”

“What’s there to be excited ‘bout?” Jonathan grumbles. Pulls on his shirt. 

“End of high school.”

“Still have college though.”

“I take it you’re not excited for college either?”

He sighs, getting into bed beside Edward. “I want to be.”

“But?”

“I dunno. It’s just more school and more work and more having to take care of myself. What’s exciting ‘bout that?”

He nestles against Jonathan, pressing his face into his shoulder. “At least you don’t have to do it alone this time,” he murmurs.

“No, I suppose I don’t.” He kisses the top of Edward’s head. 

He hums contentedly. “Get some sleep,” he says softly. 

“I’ll try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is super short whoops i just wanted to write something a little cute  
> i'm wrapping up this fic tho i think the next chapter may be the last one but if you liked this and wanna see more i'm working on a sequel abt their college years so stay tuned for that the first couple chapters are already written but i'm waiting to post them until this one is officially done.


	35. Death

Jonathan looks around his room. It’s always been relatively bare, but seeing it completely empty is jarring to say the least. His furniture and anything he wasn’t taking with him had all been sold. The rest of his possessions had fit neatly into one bag. His room is empty. The whole house is empty. 

He’s struck by just how nervous he is. He’s always wanted to leave Arlen, or at least leave this goddamn house. He just never expected it would actually happen. Maybe he’s not meant to leave. Maybe he’s not meant for anything but this. Maybe he shouldn’t do this. 

Edward knocks gently on the open door. “Jonathan? You okay?”

“What if I’m making a mistake?” he murmurs, more to himself than Edward. 

“You’re eighteen. It’s the perfect time to make mistakes.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He goes over to Jonathan, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You don’t have to get it right on the first try,” he says softly. “If you hate college, you don’t have to go. If you hate New York, you can leave.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Right now, it is.” He squeezes his shoulder lightly. “Take advantage of the fact that you’re young. You have so much time to fuck up and still come out okay.” 

He inhales a shaky breath. Nods quickly. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m okay.” He still feels nervous, but that’s to be expected. “Thanks. For sayin’ all that.”

Edward offers a small smile, kissing his cheek quickly. “I’m going to finish loading up the truck. Want me to take your bag?”

“Sure.” He hands him the small duffel bag.

“Coming?”

“I… need a minute.”

He nods. “Take your time.”

Jonathan waits until he’s sure Edward is out of the house before going downstairs. He goes out the back door into the yard. Goes towards the barn. He stops when he reaches the doors, his hand hovering just above the handles. Takes a deep breath. Pulls them open.

He can see his grandmother’s grave at the back of the barn even before he enters. He walks slowly over to it. It’s not much to look at, just a pile of dirt with no headstone or marker of any kind. He stands over it, stands over her, his heart pounding in his chest. He’s reminded of all the things she did to him. He’s reminded of all the things she did for him too. For a moment, he thinks he feels tears sting the backs of his eyes. 

The moment passes. 

He sneers down at the dirt. Spits on her grave. Turns to leave. “I hope you fucking rot,” he hisses over his shoulder. He hopes that she can hear him from whatever circle of Hell she’s burning in. 

And then he walks away. Away from the barn. Away from the yard. Away from the house. 

He’s leaving.

He’s  _ finally  _ leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i never expected this fic would be 60 pages and 35 chapters i usually can't crank out anything nearly this long and i'm actually sorta proud of this! thanks to everyone who left a review or kudos it really is motivating to know that ppl actually like this.
> 
> if you liked this fic and u wanna see more i'm puttin out a sequel called "Like Real People Do" so keep an eye out for that if you're interested
> 
> thanks!


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